I can hear them ranting. Like a choir of angels, those cunts. Not singing nor dancing here; All eyes down for the casting. Spell trough scraped dry. Practising our sincerest sorrows; All full faced to the grind of stone. The drag of that inert through toil of chained wrought sinew. Ragged faces turned up to the rain. Staring down; drawing down the rain. Staring down; drawing down the rain. Drawing down the rain. Drawing down. All our ears are open / all our eyes are smiling Gracelessly receiving empty threats of heaven. As grist to and from these dark Satanic mills. A barren wasteland dreamt through streets of prescription mist. There is no attenuating this. No attenuating this. Holes in the heart of this city. Holes. Drawing down the rain. Heaven calling; calling through sewer-gratings.